


Sinoilat Xel

by ratadder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: BDSM, Boys in Chains, Companion Piece, Dark, Disturbing Themes, M/M, POV Alex Krycek, Questionable Consent, Slaves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 20:43:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3704379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratadder/pseuds/ratadder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a companion piece to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3704355">"Lex Talionis"</a> by rac, and is a Krycek-POV on the events in that story.<br/>Warnings: Dark and potentially disturbing. Explicit bdsm, and consent is questionable</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sinoilat Xel

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Lex Talionis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3704355) by [chains_archivist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chains_archivist/pseuds/chains_archivist). 



> Note from Dusk, the archivist: this work was originally archived at [Boys in Chains](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Boys_in_Chains), which opened in 2000 as a multifandom archive for both fiction and art, but then sadly went offline in 2005. To bring the archive back, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in December 2014. Open Doors [posted an announcement](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/1832) and e-mailed all creators about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please [contact the Open Doors committee](http://transformativeworks.org/contact/open%20doors).  
> \--  
> NOTES: Thanks to rac for her support and enthusiasm. If you haven’t read [ "Lex Talionis"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3704355), you may want to do so first. This may make more sense that way. My POV reversal was written on the very first version of Lex, which has since been edited slightly. Thanks also to She Who Asked, because this story would still be buried on the hard drive without her.
> 
> WARNING: Dark and potentially disturbing. Explicit bdsm, and consent is questionable

Time becomes meaningless.  
  
I lay here and the silence breaks only when I shatter it myself. My voice I don’t choose to use. Why bother? When I’m alone, it just underlines the helplessness, to hear my voice speaking in empty rooms. To hear myself talking to no one is to break out of this place inside my mind, to be yanked out from hiding, to lose the thin cotton-covering of my inward focus.  
  
Small protection, but I take what I can, when I can. When you’re flayed bare any protection is …something.  
  
And when I’m not alone? Speaking is not required. Not anymore. Not allowed. Another fine reason to stay silent now. Training. Practice.  
  
But the ambient noise I sometimes can’t avoid. Links of metal chains scrape against each other if I so much as shift. I don’t want to, but my muscles protest my instinct to lay perfectly still. Every tiny metallic chink brings me back to my body, my physicality… all that I am now. Back to my bonds, as if the thick bands of leather, snug at ankles and wrist, weren’t enough of a reminder.  
  


Shift. Clink.  
  


I don’t want to be in my body. Not until I’m forced. Not now. Not yet. Not while time is still meaningless. Not when I have no idea how long I will lay, lashed down and open, this cloth over my eyes the only covering anywhere on me. Surrounded by darkness, even with my eyes open. Black on black and when I think too much about that it takes everything in me to stay calm, stay still. To remember my place. I’m not in a hole in the ground.  
  


I’m in a hole in my soul.  
  


But I’m not underground. Madness may be close, but not that particular madness. This dark is thick but warm. This dark tastes different. This dark is defined, purposeful. It has an end… of sorts. Then a beginning again, over and over, but always an end. A promised end. A threatened end.  
  


I wonder not for the first time if this makes it better, or worse.  
  


My lack of sight helps to make the tiniest of sounds threaten the encompassing silence. My head when it rolls on the sheet, the soft susurrus of my hair against cloth… my breathing… the sound of my throat working when I swallow…  
  


Shift. Clink.  
  


And here I am again. In myself. Present and feeling my limbs, *feeling* the cuffs, *feeling* the position I’m stretched in. Not uncomfortably. Just uncomfortably open. Accessible. I refuse the small moan that wants to leave my throat, hating the tingle coursing through my groin at the acknowledgment. Accessible. The slight range of movement provided by the chains almost makes it worse… I think it would be better if they held me stretched to my limit, unmoving, taut. But then I’m always thinking something else would be better than what is. So far I’ve usually been wrong. But the fact that I can move… just so far… it invites the twitch of my muscles, makes the catch when the chain reaches its limit all the more hopeless… all the more final. Makes uncomfortable warmth pool in my crotch.  
  


Shift. Clink. Catch…  
  


Not the sounds I wait for, endlessly. The sounds I know are coming. Eventually. He’s coming. When, I don’t know. Time… time… I laugh, then wince, swallowing it back quickly, trying to wriggle back into my head, out of my body. Let time fade again, to a surreal backdrop. When? When. When he gets here. There is no other time for me. Time is a continuum of when he is here, and when he isn’t here.  
  


But I do know he’s coming.  
  


He must be coming.  
  


A man I once owned, owns me. Holds a much more tangible leash than the nanocyte lead I jerked and tugged at my leisure. Even when he’s not *here*, he’s here. No matter where I retreat internally, he’s there waiting for me. He’s crawled inside me and I’ll never be rid of him. Even when I get out of here. If I ever get out of here. Maybe I won’t. Maybe he’ll keep me.  
  


At this stage, I can think of worse things. I won’t be of much use for anything else. Not now. Not anymore. Not after… this.  
  


I hate these thoughts. I hate when my own thoughts scare me more than his voice. Too much time on my hands. On my hand? Too much time and dark and almost-silence to keep my mind from twisting in on itself and playing out the endless reel of my choices and my choices and my choices.  
  


The choices I made knowing what they meant and the choices I made *thinking* I knew and the choices I made already regretting them and the choices I made from necessity and the choices I made in anger and in stupidity and in arrogance…  
  


And the choices I made that landed me here.  
  


Stupidity? Arrogance? Necessity? Some combination of all? None of the above?  
  


Want?  
  


A deal with the devil for a soul I counted cheap. A soul already sold and gone and defective anyway. Damaged, like shop-soiled goods presented as worthwhile merchandise with an actual fair price value. Me, giggling madly inside at the con I was offering.  
  


How was I supposed to know it was still in there… still reachable… still vulnerable. Still wanting.  
  


So now I bow again before his stone authority. Our previous bureaucratic imbalance of power an ironic counterpoint to our current… arrangement. That the balance shifted to me in the interim is more of a cruel joke, a poking reminder of my own mistakes, my own-  
  


And between one breath and the next, whether it’s been three minutes or three hours or three days, he’s here. I can smell him. The air changes, charges. Suddenly, I feel hot. Stillness is almost impossible now, and so much more important. Before I can control it my breath is louder and faster in my own ears.  
  


Oh god.  
  


The door is well-oiled for just this reason. The carpet thick and absorbing his steps. I never *hear* him arrive. My sense spin. I have no idea where he is, I just know he is *here*.  
  


The interminable wait is over, and as usual, I suddenly can’t imagine why I wanted it to end. The soft, warm, dark quiet seems a safe haven I instantly want back, even though moments ago I couldn’t bear it. Something crawls just under my skin, something I refuse to call fear even as I scent it in the light sweat springing up all over me. My throaty swallow sounds obscenely loud and I press my lips together to try to force my breathing through my nose, slower… slower…   
  


All I succeed in doing is flaring my nostrils and drowning in the aroma of my own fear as my lungs continue to suck air rapidly. The dark surrounding me is no longer a source of potential panic, not when real panic stands so close.  
  


He lets me wait. Knowing.  
  


And even as I regret wanting this now that it is here, the wanting grows sharper within. An ache. The ache. Low down and so deep, so very deep. My gut tightens and then the dull *thwap* of leather snapping against leather close by makes everything tighten, makes my breath catch on a not-quite-gasp.  
  


Close, so close… where? Something brushes me and I tense then try to force my muscles to relax. Fingers, slightly rough despite a desk job. Thick, warm, rounded, and so gentle. Stroking, tracing… ah fuck… tracing the old wounds, all the wounds. Every single one, unerring. Each and every scar that I know without my eyes because I’ve lived with them in the mirror. The white lines, the pink lines, the raised and the flat. The ones that remain slightly numb and the ones that have faded to only a visible mark, but that still call up the memory of the original hurt when his fingers coast, when his palm smoothes. Teasing, teasing. Coaxing a twitching response from thickening flesh left pointedly untouched. Up and down, the stroking, all over my torso and sides and arm and I can’t stop, I can’t stay quiet, I can feel my quivering, and no… not there… not…  
  


I can’t keep still, can’t keep the racking shudder from coursing through me as that hand touches there, that place, that ugly emptiness. His hand slides possessively over shifting numbness and sensation, and phantom nerves jerk and tingle. I want to plead with him to stop, not there, anywhere but there, but words can’t come even if I would let them out, because I can barely breathe. Don’tdon’tdon’t… please…  
  


And then it’s gone and something… something else is trailing down my leg, startling me with the sudden change, making my skin tingle, making my thighs ache to pull inward, to close. Tickling down, more than one strand, individual tracks tracing, teasing, all the way to my foot and back up my other leg, sliding over my thigh, between my legs and… oh god…   
  


It’s all I can do to lay still as the languid strips tangle and catch in the hair at my crotch, pulling just enough to coax another impossible contraction from my inner thigh muscles. Swirling then, buttery soft brushes over my filling cock and jesus when did I get that hard. The contact is exquisite and unexpected, and a small, hoarse cry is yanked from my throat as the leather drags maddeningly slowly over my obediently responsive flesh.  
  


Gone. I catch my breath and try to keep my mouth closed. Try to regulate my breathing through my nose again. Pace myself. My body is simmering already. My blood pounds through me and every nerve ending quivers. I hear him moving but nothing touches me. Something clinks… my chains?… but I lay perfectly still, inviting no rebuke. My cock is surging, hardening further without any tactile encouragement, so well-trained I want to scream, cry, rail at him.  
  


Rail at myself.  
  


Instead I stay still. Quiet. Waiting.  
  


"Roll over."  
  


That voice. Ah god, that rough, low voice. A relief I didn’t know I was waiting for rolls through me like a spring-thaw flood. I never remember until something confirms that it’s him… I never remember the fears that grip me in shadowed moments. That one of these times it won’t be him. That he’ll have loaned me out, having figured out how much of a punishment *that* would be, perhaps come along to stand by and watch… comment… offer knowing suggestions… snicker and taunt while my body is expertly worked by another…  
  


But it’s him. Which should be no relief at all, really. And I’m moving before I consciously tell my limbs to do so, reacting to the soft command on instinct, moaning my relief and my fear. Rolling to my left, my shackled right wrist drags the chain across the straight metal rod at the head of the bed, with a smooth hiss of metal moving easily. One of the few time the lack of the left arm helps rather than hinders. The chains attached to my ankles drag against each other as I roll to my stomach, my cock welcoming the press of the bed, snuggling into the warm contact. Already my legs are spreading of their own will and I hear the chinking finality as he refastens each chain, widening my thighs further as he secures my ankles.  
  


And the leather is back, gliding faster over the backs of my legs now, tormenting my inner thighs yet again from this new and no less harrowing angle. Teasing my ass, trailing between the cheeks, then over each, again and again, then lifting away and… FUCK!  
  


The sear of the strike on my ass brings a helpless grunt, and I hate the noise more than the pain. The noise means lack of control. I can’t be losing it already. I desperately try to swallow all sound but the lash is back, landing again, landing harder, and the lines of fire double across my ass and I don’t quite manage silence. My ass pulses more than my cock as each individual stripe from the flogger sings loudly.  
  


The first are always the worst, I always think. Until the rest come.  
  


But that hand is back, stroking, stroking. I shiver under the gentle touch, the heat diffusing to a generalized thrum, settling pleasantly, my entire ass tingling. His palm caresses each cheek separately… soothingly… and it’s work not to press back into it. Then it’s gone and…  
  


*Fire*… oh god it’s worse, it’s heat, pain, pain, heat, the lashes come fast and regular, and I can’t stop the moans, my ass burns, each angle slightly different, hitting new flesh, crossing earlier welts. I can’t… I can’t… I buck and surge under the flying fire, my bonds keeping me anchored wide as the straps paint my thighs with liquid heat and I grunt and groan and holler into the bed when my assflesh is tormented yet again on the flogger’s journey up to my shoulders. My arm wrenches against the chain as I jerk anew, but the pain in my remaining wrist is nothing to the swelling ache that blossoms fresh with each agonizing lick, each penetrating snap that echoes in my ears.  
  


No settling, no thrumming, no tingle. No pause lets any of the pleasanter after-affects rise. Pain ripples through me in ever-widening circles and still the blows continue. Constantly shifting attention keeps my entire backside alive and sizzling, but always returns to my tortured ass and I twist and writhe desperately, hearing my own moans and yelps but as helpless to stop them as I am to evade the strap catching me from every side, every conceivable angle. Stopstopstop… *enough*, I’m burning alive, roasting… my ass is steaming… flares of pain exploding unbearably now with every slash of the leather and-  
  


Gone. Gasping, trembling, face pressed to the bed. Hand, fingers, oh sweet, oh heaven… that gentle hand, calming then stirring my raw, rioting nerves, chasing sparks across my skin. I can’t keep still. I can’t. I try but my hips are responding and oh, so hard, I’m so hard… the blood pooling thickly in my groin, chased there by the strapping, throbbing in my cock… that hand so delicious, dragging out the burn… the sheet so soft the bed so firm and muscles pull tight and I’m squirming, thighs spreading, knees digging, hips thrusting, pressing, rubbing, cock hot and hard and humping the mattress… oh *yes*… heat surges and I’m so achingly aroused, so ready, so-  
  


"Don’t move until I tell you."  
  


The hand leaves and I want to whimper but I still on command. Obey. My cock screams a protest, wanting to rub, to chafe, take advantage of the full press of trapped contact, burrow against the now-damp sheet, grind in frantic rhythm. Laying still is a purer torture than the flogging. My balls ache, swollen full and heavy, pulsing gently in time with the teeming blood heating my ass, my thighs, my back. Still. Stay still.  
  


"Up on your knees."  
  


No. Oh *god* no… not this… don’t… I can’t… *no*…   
  


"Mmm…nuh…"  
  


I groan it aloud before I can bite my tongue and my punishment for forgetting myself is swift and harsh. The hand that lands on my so sore right asscheek sends waves of impossible fiery pain through my ass and I almost bounce against the bed, sinking my teeth into my tongue and swallowing my whimper.  
  


"Was that a complaint?"  
  


My entire body shudders before I can recapture my stillness, and I lift my head enough to shake it no. No words. No voice. I have no voice. My tongue is for him alone. He decides how I use it. Obey. Just obey.  
  


"Then get up."  
  


The quiet, harsh words pull my muscles into compliance. Obeyobeyobey… sings my mind, panicky. I can feel something pulling apart inside me, inside my chest, inside my head. I can guess what’s coming. And I can’t… I can’t take it… it’s too much too soon after the last time. No protection. It’s all gone… worn away by a cruel, ruthless expertise I didn’t expect, didn’t suspect, until it was far far too late. I’ve got nothing left, nothing to hold to, nothing to hide behind… nothing but obedience to the punishment. Give. Bend. Break…  
  


Blind and obedient, I kneel up slowly, instantly mourning the loss of pressure against my erection, balancing awkwardly on my only hand. I hear the rustle, feel the brushes as the sling is pulled beneath me. Want to scream, but won’t. Don’t. I breathe through my nose and try to center my wildly spinning mind as I hear him working, connecting up the sling to its supports.  
  


"Lie down."  
  


I sink forward, knowing what to expect, feeling my chest then stomach come into contact, letting the smooth, strong material catch me up inches above the bed. My arm muscles relax, my legs go limp, the sling supports me from chin to groin. Suspended, my feet and fingers brushing the bed, the darkness somehow feels more complete, surrounding me… I’m weightless, hanging, helpless.  
  


I’ve been helpless all along. Why does the sling make it worse?  
  


And I have my answer as he adjusts the sling, adjusts my legs, making sure the sling catches me just at the hip bones, my chained legs dangling… and worse… the worst yet… the heavy weight of my engorged cock and balls swaying helplessly between my spread thighs. Pendulous. Exposed. Aching. Nothing to rub against, press against, rest against… not even my own thigh or stomach… their own heaviness pulling them down and keeping them from touching anything at all. I want to twist and writhe again, my arousal intensifying absurdly now that nothing can so much as brush my throbbing flesh, dangling in midair. I lay as still as I possibly can, inviting no further punishment in this position. I bite my lip, my cheeks feeling as hot as my ass, as his big hands reach between my legs, under me, and humiliatingly adjust me there as well… impersonally… underscoring just how helpless I am, how I exist for his pleasure.  
  


Spread out for him on display, ass-up and chained down, and I can’t help but picture how I must look from where he stands and I mentally cringe all over again.  
  


I groan as his businesslike touch makes the contact all the worse… a deep, involuntary sound ripped from my throat as I long to thrust my begging organ against that disdainful hand. I won’t, I can’t… stay stillstillstill… no movement. But it’s too late already, the groan my undoing, and his hands change subtly, his touch lingering, altering. My inability to close my legs, to protect myself in any way, makes the touch more invasive and makes me whimper in my head. I curse my inability to stay silent and wish for a gag. He never gives me a gag anymore. He knows… he knows…  
  


And this is doing no good. No mental effort at distraction can block the incredible sensations of his suddenly entirely-too-personal fingers, palms, as both hands play between my stretched legs gleefully. One surrounds my balls, and my swollen flesh spills over his hand, his teasing fingers rubbing my distended sac from all sides, cupping tenderly with his palm. His other hand wraps warmly around my thick hanging cock, not too loose, not too tight, snug and delicious, daring me to thrust as he coaxes ripples of glorious sensation that reverberate through my groin. Toomuchtoomuch… can’t stay still… every muscle in my body tremors with the effort to remain motionless as both hands fondle and stroke me like a tolerated pet kitten, his thumb teasing, teasing over the tip of my cock, finding the hot, telling fluid there.  
  


That constant, helpless leaking of my cock intensifies my sense of my own lack of control, of my body’s traitorous, carefully-tutored response to him. The wetness embarrasses me, makes the whimpering louder in my head, sends me scrambling backwards into the dark even as it anchors me in my sensations. Whether he knows or not, his hand strokes over my pulsating ass, quieting my internal struggle, leaving my cock and balls to swing free and untouched again… bereft.  
  


The hand glides over me, up my back, and he’s moving. I barely have time to breathe relief that I kept still through his petting before I feel his grip twisting painfully in my hair, a harsh hold tilting my head and keeping me right where he wants me. A wash of aroma suddenly floods my darkness and I suck in hungrily through my nose… taste him at the back of my throat… heady musk of leather and *him*, oh him… testosterone scents the air and my cock twitches in instinctive, hated response. I’ve smelled many men, but that *he* should make my mouth water makes a scream ricochet off the inside of my skull. The more he debases me the more I respond and even my hate wears thin when-  
  


"Take it. Swallow it. No gagging."  
  


The command tears through me, all thought stops. Obedience surges to the fore. I learn well, eventually, and that tone I recognize. My body recognizes almost quicker than my brain, tactile memory of the consequences of past disobedience bypassing my neurons and parting my lips. The smooth nudge of his cock presses against my lips and invades, always bigger than I remember, no pause for me to adjust. The sharp taste of him overwhelms me and his sharper hiss accompanies a jerk of fingers tangled tightly in my hair. I can’t say if the tug of pain in my scalp or the sound of his displeasure transmits the warning, but I instantly realize my mistake and panic, relaxing my jaw further, stretching wider, working my lips over my teeth to cushion his erection. My tongue slurps noisily, and I start to pull at him rhythmically, sucking at the hot, hard flesh with no preliminaries. I know what he wants from me, and this isn’t about showing finesse or talent. It’s about opening, taking him in, letting him rend me apart, and I do… I do…  
  


But he wants more. My energetic suckling merely delays the inevitable and without warning he’s thrusting… his hand holds my head immobile and this, this is what it’s *really* about… it’s about lying still and spreading wide, taking the face-fucking I deserve, while he treats me like the debased fuckhole I am. Reminding me of my place, who I am, why I’m here, why he’s here, why he’s doing this to me, why I need it, why I take it, why I deserve it… why I want it… and oh god that’s the worst…  
  


This is punishment, boy, and don’t you forget it.  
  


His cock drives deeper, scraping the roof of my mouth and forcing its way down my throat, battering and burning and I can’t suck it in and my throat muscles constrict and ohfuckcan’tbreathecan’tbreathe… don’tpanic… and thrustthrustthrust… open… take it, take it, take it… nogagging… and I know that means *nofuckinggaggingorelse* and I fight the reflex trained out of me. I blank out everything and become the hole, take the battering as best I can, reaction tears soaking my blindfold… concentrate on trying to stay open, sucking air wetly through my nose each instant he pulls back to thrust again. It takes all I have, all I am, I have no sense of anything else and the sudden rip of fire across my back and ass shocks me breathless all over again. My eyes are wide open in shock and staring into bottomless black and my raw skin screams for mercy as the flogger strikes in steady time with each plundering thrust of his cock down my aching, crushedglass throat. The moans come involuntarily, pumped up from my chest like helpless, living things, writhing muffled around my mouthful, throatful-  
  


GONE… all gone… just as suddenly as that first strike of leather, and my emptied mouth stays open and gasping, saliva dripping down my puffy lips, my lungs bursting with fresh air, but I’m still the hole… his hole, his bruised and open hole. My shoulders and ass teem and throb, each awakened stripe hotter than the burn surrounding it. I come back to myself slowly and my teeth click together as my exhausted jaw collapses on itself, catching back the small whimpers still coursing through me. I snuffle against my full sinuses and swallow carefully, my abraded throat protesting but needing the moisture. The taste of him permeates my mouth, my nose. Inside me, all through me… he takes me over, again and again, and there’s a freedom in his ownership I’ve never known…  
  


Where is he? I can hear… I work to center myself, but I feel tattered and soulscared. He’s a master at this, at the sudden shifts, the changing attacks. He’s taken me apart piece by piece by piece by piece so many times now… sometimes taking slow, sexsoaked hours upon hours, sometimes finishing quick and brutal. And the dark silence between the dismantlings hasn’t been enough to put myself back together anymore. Each time I come apart quicker, and the pieces scatter further, it’s harder to regroup… harder to hold anything back…  
  


Where is he… I know what must be coming, I know what must be next… I slow my breathing with an effort, my ears tuning desperately for the slightest clue, but the minute sounds he makes as he moves through the room only tell me he is beside me rather than in front of me now. They provide no warning at all for the sudden hand delving into the crack of my sore ass proprietarily, spreading my cheeks with that same casual, impersonal touch. And as much as I knew it was coming eventually, it’s still devastating, every time. He forces the soft, tenderized flesh apart with thumb on one side, fingers on the other, and I want to wriggle impossibly at the invasion, the affront, at the feel of my asshole being exposed so easily.  
  


My face flames again.  
  


Oh god no, oh yes… oh please. I can’t… I need it, please don’t… My entire awareness is instantly back in my groin, my blood-congested pelvis, my primed ass… and my brutalized throat fades to nothing with reproachful twinges. My mind screams with familiar confused panic while my body instantly responds with shameful acquiescence. His one hand holds me exposed, his other fingers press directly into my hole, and I feel the slickness of warm lube easing their slide as my anus stretches readily around them.  
  


Being stroked open in this position makes me press my burning face into the sling, the humiliating sensation of defenselessness overshadowed only by the terrible, galling knowledge that the lube is only the smallest part of the reason he probes so easily. My puckered hole welcomes the two thick fingers working in and out, welcomes them with an eagerness, an openness, that scalds me. I desperately want to ride back against the prodding intrusion… yes, there, oh god yes, more…  
  


The feel of his fingers just *there*, inside me, answers the ache that started up with the thrashing, that started up when I felt his presence in the room, that started up before he even showed up today… the hated ache that never really goes away. Not anymore. That it’s *him* makes it so much worse. That it’s *him* makes it as good as it is. That it’s him making me feel this… helpless and at his mercy and his mercy doesn’t exist. It’s so goddamn good and I can’t stand it, not one more time, I hate the pure *want* boiling up within me, spreading through me. His insistence on my pleasure is the cruelest punishment of all. He won’t let me deny any of it, not even to myself…  
  


His fingers leave me breathless and my asshole flutters as he withdraws, and I squirm in desperate embarrassment all over again. I’m empty and I need to be filled and if I could hate this I’d be safer but he makes me want it so bad. And then he’s there… cockhead nudging, hands gripping my throbbing ass cheeks firmly, holding them wide, and then pressing… easing past the loosened gate with an ease that makes me whimper.  
  


He mounts me and one steady thrust and oh god he’s in, that cock… that cock… so full sofull too much… oh glorious… riding into me, pushing me open and stuffing me full, stretching me, all the way in, no pause, bigger even than in my mouth and I take it all and can’t stop moaning. Oh fuck oh fuck… the feeling the feeling, the feeling is insane, I’m insane, I’m his, he owns this ass, and as if at the thought my ass muscles spasm, tightening helplessly on the thick column of flesh impaling me, owning me… it shrivels my soul that he can make me feel this, make me *want* this feeling, over and over, and I need it so bad, fill me fill me fill me up with your anger and your power and your revenge and your hate and *your cock*…  
  


He stays perfectly still and my plundered ass can do nothing but accept, his balls resting hot and heavy against my aching sac. I try to relax fully but my ass wants to remind me of how big he is, how hard, how full I am… gripping and tightening… and the intensity of the feeling makes me long to squirm but I stay as still as he is, obedient, obedient. Oh please, I’m being good, aren’t I… please… I can be good, I can… I can do this right. Let me show you, let me make it up, take it all… take all I can give. Fuck me hard but just *fuck me*… take me there, take me out of me… make me beg, make me scream, make me need…  
  


Make me pay…  
  


I’m only what he makes me… I’m clay, thrown spinning on the wheel while he molds and kneads and pinches the soft sticky stuff of me, working my body to his satisfaction…  
  


He pulls out and then he’s back, oh that cock, the slow slide and thrust dragging over my prostate with agonizing sureness… and out… and in, and every penetration is as bad as the first, as good as the first, as sweet and hot and wet and terrible… opening me all over again, all the way in and I can’t take it but I have no choice, it’s all that I am. His hands tighten on my ass cheeks, fingers biting into the inflamed plumpness, and I curse not for the first time the easy handholds my body provides. Holding me wide open makes his thrusts all the more *there*, as if they need the help, but my asshole can’t contract even if it wanted to and my slicked flesh throbs with need. Thrust and pull out, in and back out, and I whimper with the itching *ache* pulsing up inside me where his cock teases again and again.  
  


I want to watch it going in, I want to watch my ass take it, watch him pound my pink opening, watch my flesh give and accept… I whine and instantly try to close down the thought but the mental images are there, here in the dark with me, and I’m too far gone for any form of control and it ratchets up my arousal another impossible notch. My breath comes in ragged gasps and I’m mewling before I can stop, a helpless inarticulate sound with each inthrust but he doesn’t seem to mind and I couldn’t stop even if he did and his cock just keeps riding, pumping, slow measured drives that angle just right every time and my own cock throbs with every nudge against *that* gland… even though I know he’s not even trying because it’s not about my pleasure, the pleasure is just part of the punishment. The punishment… my swollen and tender balls protest every slap of his against them… overfull from too many rounds of this game, even this is too much for them. This time… yes… this time, please, *please*, I can’t take this anymore, I need, I’ve been good, I know I deserve it, I know I need it, but I’ve been so good, I’ve tried so hard, I’ve paid, haven’t I… haven’t I paid enough…  
  


"…please…"  
  


I hear but hardly recognize my voice in the word, the plea… my lips are moving against the sling but nothing else makes it past my throat, my mind can’t string a coherent thought let alone sentence and the only thing beating through my brain is more of the same please… pleasepleaseplease… oh god *please*…  
  


And my answer comes in the form of a band wrapping snuggly around the base of my cock and snapping tight with a tiny, deadly click.  
  


NOOOOOOOOO… oh *god* NO…   
  


A wordless, keening whine rises and I bite the sling and whimper as the cock ring instantly intensifies the throbbing in my erection, the trapped blood pounding in the impossibly swelling flesh. Release denied, this cock is his… just a *small* reminder. My head shakes in pleading negation but I know better than to complain or vocalize. Ican’tIcan’t… my hips are twisting against my will but my *cock*… my hand jerks against its chain helplessly, helplessly reaching, anything to touch that tortured flesh, that-  
  


I freeze… what the fuck… oh *GOD*… something… oh oh oh oh… my entire body trembles, my throat forming helpless "unh"s as *something* brushes my bursting cock and balls. Something unbearable. Oh god oh god what *is* this… wings of bees, rose petals, Mulderlips… soft and silky and barely there but *so there*… everywhere… surrounding my fat cock, my heavy sac, grazing every surface of my dangling sex-  
  


Oh FUCK… he’s back, he’s in, I’m stuffed with that cock, he’s thrusting up my ass and my nerve endings scream overload and oh god it’s it’s it’s… it’s torture of course it’s torture but I can’t *TAKE IT*… I can’t stop it but I can’t take it and groans rip through me as every thrust fills me, rocks my body in the gently swaying sling and my cock and balls bounce and swing through thisthisthis… *sensation*, back and forth and back and forth and back through thethethe…  
  


*Feathers*… oh fuck it’s feathers… all over my crotch, just my crotch…  
  


It’s hell… it’s everywhere… my crotch is surrounded and there’s no escape… I’m… I can’t… I can’t stop, I cry out, my mouth won’t close, I can’t stop, can’t stop crying out, over and over, can’t stop gasping and every thrust forces my ass open, every thrust moves me, every thrust teases tickling touches up and down and all over my bound cock, my turgid balls. The torment knows no end, no beginning no edges no limits and my cries fill the room, fill my ears. My cock pulsates with a frantic life all it’s own and the cock ring ensures the agony… my balls pulling up helplessly but no release, nothing but this constant-  
  


The heavy slap of his hand against my ass has me yelping, has me jumping in the sling, jerking helplessly and my bonds hold me fast, there’s nowhere to go and my ass is on fire and my cock… my cock… my cock is…   
  


Oh help me oh help me I can’t… this is perfection, intolerable perfection… my cock… my ass… I can’t stand it for one more second but it doesn’t stop and I have no choice but to endure and I just take it and take it and no matter how much I think I can’t there’s no end and I just do…  
  


His hands strike again and again, one cheek then the other, and the pain chases the pleasure chases the torment chases the… I’m on overload… he’s moving faster, cock and hands, and I can’t breathe but I’m still choking and crying out and my yelps become sobs and my tears saturate the blindfold and course my cheeks. My ass is fucked and spanked and spanked and fucked and I’m twisting and wriggling and no movement can get me away from the maddening titillation of *those feathers* kissing my cock, licking my balls-  
  


And he’s coming, jerking, I hear his roar of pleasure, completion, triumph… and I sob anew… it’s over… I’m in pieces on the floor, destroyed, shattered. His fingers squeeze my inflamed cheeks and his hips rock hard against my spread ass in final spasms, and I squirm helplessly, trying for something, anything, I need more, I need touch, I need release, I need I need I need Ineedneedneed…  
  


I chase the impossible, I know it’s done and my sobbing is louder in my ears, my wracked body shaking with hopeless pain, anger, anguish, shame… nothing more than I deserve, and is it enough yet, is it enough? He stills and stands as I whimper and whine and lose all the dignity that’s been stripped from me piece by piece by piece. I go as still as I can as he pulls out, my abused ass wanting nothing more than something else inside it, filling it, filling the emptiness, prodding that gland, bringing on the orgasm I needneedneed… I try to still my shaking, knowing it’s over and done and my only salvation now is to move as little as possible, try not to disturb those infuriating feathers that drive me mad… mad...  
  


I can’t… not quite… I’m quivering in my bonds, humiliated and wrecked, the sling still rocking gently, my entire body screaming with sensation, with denied climax. He’s still in the room but not touching, nowhere near me. I try to swallow my sobs, knowing they move my body, keep the feathering torment at a fever pitch. My balls feel like lead weights, already aching with lack of release, the dull throbbing promising long discomfort. Again. I want to rub them, cradle them. My hand jerks fitfully before I can force it to stillness again. My dripping, ignored cock pulses huge against the snug strap, twitching with every feathering touch. I want to shut out my body but it’s beyond any possibility… my gut aching and my ass burning and my prostate pulsing… the sloppy wet feel of my greased and stretched asshole, my buttocks contracting helplessly…  
  


Does the punishment fit the crime? Does the punishment fit the crimes… is it enough… will it ever be enough… give it to me again, it’s not enough for me… make me give it all up, make me beg and scream and crawl and plead… make me take it until I don’t even remember why…  
  


Deliver me. Please…  
  


Play my body, pluck my strings like the virtuoso you are, call forth the wailing tune of need and grief and want… want…  
  


He doesn’t even ask anymore. He hasn’t asked for answers since I still wasn’t answering. I could hold nothing back now. I hang in this sling with the sodden blindfold wet against my face and want nothing more than the freedom of a question. Ask me anything… let me give… give me a way out…  
  


Please. Just ask. Make this mean something. Take this surrender… accept it… make it complete.  
  


A hand strokes my head without warning but I don’t jerk. I lay perfectly still and feel the wonderful, terrible gentleness as that hand smoothes my hair, caresses my cheeks, touching the tears. I don’t move… don’t move… just accept…   
  


Don’t go. Stay. Don’t go.  
  


The fingers slide tenderly off my face, and a whimper catches in my throat. I hear the door this time, when it shuts with a thunk. And I’m alone. Alone in the room, in the sling, in my bonds, in my tormented traitor of a body, in my shredded mind. Alone. In the black dark. In the silence. With my breathing.  
  


With my regrets.  
  


And time has no meaning.  
  


I hang and I drift. Time passes as only time does… as only time doesn’t. Marked only by the gradual changes in my suffering body — my slowing breathing, the settling burn in my beaten ass, my cooling sweat, my flagging erection that can’t completely die, with the cock ring still secure and the feathers deviling my crotch. That intolerable itch and tickle that I can only tolerate… and tolerate…  
  


My body recovers little by little, hour by hour, as much as it can. My mind, my self… that’s harder. Trickier. I lose where to start. Lost… lost… adrift… Mastered and cracking, in the warm thick dark, no defenses left to rebuild. His cruel, deft touch reaches into all the deepest places locked tight and hidden away… pries them open with little care or concern, pries them open with fingers of sensation, crowbars of revenge, then leaves them exposed and open and raw.  
  


He makes me a willing conspirator in my own destruction. I want to kneel up and thank him for every soulshattering session, every vengeful torture he wrecks on my tainted existence, every payment he exacts for debts too deep, too abiding, to ever be absolved. Wash me clean… let me pay in suffering, in subjugation…  
  


And how… how can I survive… how can I survive with *these* thoughts let out of their lockboxes, released from their hidden crevices… dug up and laid achingly bare. The faultlines and cracks in my psyche widening and gaping. How can I-  
  


Who?  
  


How long… the door. I can hear the door open. Hear the door close. *He* makes no noise. Who is making noise? Staff identify themselves… I stiffen and groan as the draft from the door closing stirs the agonizing feathers into a swirl of motion. No identification is forthcoming. Panic stirs. The same breeze brings me a scent… some scent… not him, but someone… oh god… no…  
  


The careless rustle of clothing being removed fills the room.  
  


~end~ 


End file.
